


angel with a cherry pie

by tryslora



Series: 12 Days of Tropemas 2018 [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: 12 Days of Tropemas, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Baker Castiel, M/M, Meet-Cute
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-26
Updated: 2018-12-26
Packaged: 2019-09-27 23:23:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17171426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tryslora/pseuds/tryslora
Summary: “Heaven must be missing an angel,” the customer says.Castiel frowns. “I’m sorry. What?”In which everyone's confused and awkward, and Meg ships Destiel.





	angel with a cherry pie

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for the 12 Days of Tropemas, Day 2 (Coffee Shop AU).

The dough feels good in Castiel’s hands. He pulls the giant ball of dough from the mixer and leaves it in a pile on one end of the counter, then slices off chunks, weighing them to make sure each one is exactly a pound. He deftly rolls each smaller chunk into a ball, neatly tucking the seam at the bottom, and places every one into a plastic bag. They are all stickered with pink stickers bearing the time before they go into the proofer to be brought out later, when needed for fresh bakes.

This is a slightly sweet dough, ready to be twisted into danish, or fried up for donuts. The blue stickers denote the sourdough, and the green is for a standard dough for pizza or white bread. The proofer is full; the dough hook has been running in the mixer all morning.

Castiel wishes this shop worked on a smaller scale, so he could make single batches and knead the dough properly, but at least this way he gets to work with his hands. It’s better than most other jobs he could be doing.

“Clarence.” Meg leans against the doorway, her arms crossed as she regards him.

Until now. Meg invading his domain of the back room is never a good sign for his baking.

“Yes, Meg?” He grabs a towel and wipes his hands first, then starts scrubbing at a swath of flour on the countertop.

“Vic needs to go home because her toddler is apparently puking like she’s possessed by a demon,” Meg says slowly, like she knows he’s going to spook. “I need you out front.”

She’s right. He’s going to spook.

Castiel puts down the towel and holds up his hands. “No, Meg. You know I handle baking only. I am not a barista.”

“I don’t need you to make drinks,” Meg says, and Castiel slowly starts to relax. “I need you on register.”

That’s worse.

“You want me to talk to customers.” His tone is flat. It’s an emphatic no, his words making that obvious, yet Meg takes his elbow anyway and pulls him through the door into the front of the shop.

“You only have to say three things—ask what they want, give them the total and their change, and tell them to have a nice day.” Meg pushes him toward the register where Ruby is already pulling out her drawer. “Ruby, just put that in the back on my desk; I’ll count it as soon as I’ve got Clarence here settled in.”

“Thanks, Meg!” Ruby calls on her way out.

Meg slides a fresh drawer into the register and gestures, and there’s nothing for Castiel to do but step up. He’s not the only one at the front, but Kevin sighs in obvious relief when he no longer has to handle the entire long line.

It’s torture.

Castiel starts out smiling, but as the afternoon wears on, the smile slips away. He looks forward to the brief period in late afternoon when the crowd should thin—the time between afternoon coffee breaks, and everyone heading home, Kevin says.

At last there are only a few people left in line. The giggling teenage girls go straight to Kevin’s line, and he flushes to see them. That leaves the tall, bow-legged man in plaid for Castiel.

“What can I get for you?” Castiel asks, hands poised, ready to ring in the order.

“Heaven must be missing an angel,” the customer says.

Castiel frowns. “I’m sorry. What?”

“Did it hurt when you fell?” the customer asks, and Castiel just stands there, not sure what to do.

“Don’t mind Dean, he’s just been itching to meet you, and now that he has, you should get him a tall black coffee and a thick slice of cherry pie,” Meg says. She reaches past Castiel to ring up the sale. “Dean, you just go on and sit down by the window, and Clarence will bring your order to you shortly.”

Dean’s flushed. “Right. I’ll just be—” He drops a small wad of bills on the counter and hurries away.

“You want me to be the barista and the waiter?” Castiel mutters in protest. “We don’t have waiters, Meg. We don’t wait on customers.”

She puts her hands on his shoulders and for such a small woman, she has a hell of a push. She shoves him toward the coffee maker. “I want you to get yourself a cup of coffee and slice of pie and go take your fifteen and sit down with the nice man and try talking to someone for once in your life.”

“Meg, I—”

She jabs a finger at the coffee. “Get your drink and go.”

When Castiel looks to the window, Dean is studiously looking anywhere but the counter. As confused as Castiel is, he doesn’t think he should argue with Meg, and he can’t deny that it’s nice to get something to eat for his break. He grabs a discarded small sheet pan to use as a tray and loads it up with coffee and pie to bring over to where Dean sits.

“I have your order,” he says.

Dean looks up, his cheeks still pinked, which makes his eyes seem an intense, bright green. “Yeah, hey man, I’m sorry about that. It was awkward, and I fucked up.”

Castiel sets the pan on the table, then sits. He hands Dean’s coffee and pie to him before taking his own. “It was confusing,” he admits. “Meg is something of a force of nature. I’m used to being confused where she is concerned.”

“Mm.” Dean nods as he takes a forkful of pie. He groans as soon as he tastes it. “She makes the best pie, though.”

That sound. It’s… sinful.

Castiel wouldn’t mind hearing it again.

“Actually,” he says slowly. “I made it. The pie, I mean. I usually bake and avoid working the front. There are two of us here who bake—we work opposite shifts. Michael is the other, and he’s an asshole.”

“I knew the food was different in the afternoon,” Dean said, shortly before groaning around another bite. “Damn. This pie is why I started coming in the afternoon.”

“We use the same recipe,” Castiel says, although he can’t deny that he’s pleased to be considered the better of the two bakers. He’s always known it, of course, but it’s a pleasure to have it confirmed by an outside source.

“Doesn’t matter, this shit’s the best,” Dean says. He makes short work of his pie, and it’s only a moment’s hesitation before Castiel carefully nudges his own untouched piece toward him as well.

It’s worth losing out on the food in order to listen to just how much Dean enjoys it.

Castiel glances at the clock, then at Meg. She shakes her head and jabs her finger at the table.

He has no idea what she’s saying.

Finally Dean puts his fork on the plate, looks across the table at Castiel. “Look, man, I know I came on strong back there—”

“Came on?” Castiel echoes, and it hits him as he says the words. “That was a line. A pickup line.”

“It was a terrible line,” Dean admits. “And it was a stupid idea. I just thought I’d break the ice. Maybe you’d laugh. Maybe I’d find out if your name is Castiel like your badge says, or Clarence, like Meg’s always saying. She said you might be out front today, so I just thought I’d—I thought I’d finally take my shot.”

Maybe Castiel hasn’t entirely figured this out. “My name is Castiel.” He touches the badge. “Clarence is a nickname—I’ve known Meg a long time.” He works his way back through everything else Dean has said, trying to puzzle through the meanings. “You were trying to take your shot because Meg said I’d be out front today,” he says slowly. “When, exactly, did Meg say this?”

Dean gestures with the coffee in his hand. “Yesterday, when I stopped in to pick up brownies for my nephew’s birthday.”

He’s been set up.

Castiel looks at the table, at the coffee in his hands and the mug in Dean’s as well. At the empty plates. He’s been set up on a date.

He looks back at Meg, and she waves him toward Dean again.

“I see,” he says. “And you wanted to meet me… why? You don’t even know me.”

“I wanted to fix that, maybe,” Dean says, just as slowly. “Figured that the only way to get to know you is to talk to you, right? See if you want to get coffee or a drink or something, and since we’re here, coffee seemed to work out the easiest. Besides,” he grins. “Who can resist your pie?”

“Obviously you cannot,” Castiel says. His heart is hammering under the realization that this is apparently a man who is attracted to him. An attractive man, who isn’t put off by his silence, by his hiding from other people. By his awkward interaction. He licks his lips. “Just as you obviously can not resist the baker.” When he isn’t certain that was blunt enough, he adds, “Me. You can not resist me.”

Dean blinks into the silence, and for a moment Castiel thinks he’s said it wrong, that his poor attempt at flirtation has falling ridiculously flat. Then Dean grins, and the corners of his eyes crinkle. “Does that mean my angel lines worked?” Dean asks. “I was inspired by your name tag. Well, that and the fact that you’re fucking gorgeous, like God himself carved you. But really, I blanked when you were standing right there, and got stuck on your name tag and like I said, I wanted to break the ice.”

“I doubt God had anything to do with me,” Castiel says somberly. He was raised in a far too religious house not to know that his desires and predilections are against what the church says is right and good. “But I accept the compliment. And yes. I am intrigued.”

Dean sits upright, sticks his hand across the table. “Then let’s do this right. Hey, Cas, it’s good to meet you. I’m Dean Winchester.”

Castiel grasps his hand, firm at first, gentling slowly until it seems as if they are holding hands. Castiel runs his finger along the side of Dean’s thumb, and Dean smiles slowly.

“Hello, Dean,” Castiel says, warmth rising to his cheek when he hears a low whistle from Meg. “Perhaps you should come back later, when my shift is over. I’ll pack a cherry pie and we can—we can see where we go from there. I close, however, so I’ll be here until ten.”

Dean doesn’t let go of his hand. “Then I’ll be back at ten. And I’m thinking you might be hungry for something that isn’t pastry or bread by then, and I know a good diner if you’re up for dinner and whatever.”

It seems a little soon to think about what whatever might mean, but that doesn’t stop Castiel from saying, “Dinner and whatever sounds perfect. Until then, Dean.”

He rises, and picks up the empty plates. Dean’s call of, “Yeah, Cas, I’ll see you then,” follows him as Castiel makes his way back behind the counter.

He holds up the dishes to show Meg. “I’m taking these into the back and I do believe we need to restock the case now.”

She pats his shoulder. “Clarence, you can go hide and bake to your heart’s content. My job here is done.”

Castiel hates working the front. But as he ducks into the back where his dough awaits, he has to admit that maybe this time Meg had he right idea. And he suspects that the rest of his shift will pass quickly, as he looks forward to seeing Dean again. Dinner and whatever, indeed.


End file.
